


A Hope and a Prayer

by paraparadigm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23418475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparadigm/pseuds/paraparadigm
Summary: A small gift for the wonderful resjade—and a little sketch of her Levellan & Blackwall.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Lavellan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	A Hope and a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resjade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/resjade/gifts).



He rapped his knuckles against the heavy wooden door and immediately regretted it.

After that first, poorly thought-out visit, they never met in her quarters. He'd always let her come to him, always on her own initiative, always careful to provide some contrivance that would lend plausible deniability, should she need it. He swore to himself that he wouldn't count the days in between. Sometimes, he even managed.

She always began with logistics—with the mundane, grueling matters of command, of establishing supply routes, of keeping people shod and fed and not at each other's throats. Over time, it became a joke between them, private and precious and left mostly unspoken, safe for the secret smile tucked into the corner of her lips. Pretense or not, he gave whatever matter she brought to him his undivided attention. Skyhold had settled, and the survivor's glee of the early days had given way to older, more entrenched habits. 

He'd gotten to know her tells, small things he pocketed and kept close. The tightness around her eyes when she asked him about the new recruits—she knew as well as he did that they were as unready for the field two months in as they were when they first arrived, only now they'd gotten cockier, chafing at the rotations Rutherford had set for them and no longer shy about their grumbling. Or how her knuckles paled in contained anger when she learned that the cook was short-changing the elves under his employ, not even making much of a secret of it. The quiet, introspective distraction on her face as she considered the precariousness of their lyrium supply. "One day at a time, Warden," she'd say at his piss-poor efforts at reassurance.

After that, other things took precedence. Sometimes, she walked away with a quick nod. Sometimes, she stayed and stole away in the wee hours. More and more often, what was left between them was a simple, light silence. It wasn't uncomfortable—silence was one of his most trusted comrades, and he did not mind sharing its company—but it left him with an ache in his heart, and a question with no simple answer.

He had planned to leave after the last trial—quietly, along with whoever remained after the final hearing. It had lasted well into the evening, but if the Inquisitor could sit through the parade of bastards — one after another, most of them there for minor infractions — the least he could do was to stand with the rest of the Inquisition's people and lend her his support, or, failing that, to bear witness. 

He could see it took its toll, though he couldn't quite identify the reason behind it. Perhaps it was her being Dalish, surrounded by a sea of strangers. He did not claim to understand her people, not beyond shallow glimpses here and there, be he sought common ground when he could, and steered himself towards quiet, undemanding questions when he couldn't. It wasn't enough, but it was something, and beyond that, it was always the same. The burden of commanding others boiled down to one thing: you chose a course, and you acted, and you lived with it afterwards. And whatever course you picked, there would be no undoing it. She bore it well, better than he ever had —not that anyone would be of a mind to draw the comparison. She was brash and fierce, with a mordant edge to her barbs—but beneath it, she led by example. Still, he was willing to bet that it took a tithe in future silver (though that too, he suspected she'd wear well, without bothering to hide the weight of toils and years past). 

She didn't need him, or his hollow comforts, yet here he was, planted in front of her door like a sodding tree stump, waiting to offer whatever she was willing to take. He wondered if he would have felt compelled to offer his support to another, had fate rolled the dice in someone else's favor—or disfavor, as the case may be. 

It reassured him to realize that the answer was  _ yes _ , within limits.

He knocked again.

The door yawned open on the unsteady flicker of candlelight. She was still in her formal attire, but with a new smear of ink across her nose. Blackwall bit back a nascent smile, and inclined his head. "Inquisitor," he said. And then he stalled under the weight of an unprepared excuse.

"Warden?" The surprise was fleeting. She threw the door open and gestured for him to come in. After a brief hesitation, he stepped inside.

Her quarters had changed since the last time he saw them—subtle shifts, a more lived-in feeling, little touches of domesticity. He noticed the vase of fresh flowers on the desk, and ordered himself not to wonder who they came from.

Based on her quickly smothered smirk, his effort had been moot. Of course she would notice him noticing—it was one of the things that made her so damn good at her role. 

"Courtesy of Josie, in case you're of a mind to ask." Her smile grew, illuminating her face. "Our Ambassador likes to pawn off her floral surplus on me. I still can't tell whether it's kindness, or backhanded retaliation for turning down the dinner invitation from that Orlesian noble last month."

Thom found himself grinning despite himself, and tried not to consider too closely whether the grin was on account of her quip, or of what it implied. "Knowing our Lady Ambassador’s craftiness, I’d wager it's both." And, if he were to wager further, it was a not so subtle hint to whomever came into the Inquisitor's quarters that social niceties should not be dispensed with on account of her being Dalish.

"To what do I owe this rare pleasure, Warden?"

“"I… “ He shuffled in place, suddenly unsure about what to do with his hands. “Today couldn’t have been easy..." When she didn't respond, he cleared his throat and forged on. "I doubt you need to hear it, but someone ought to say it. I've seen plenty of 'justice' in my day, but I can't say I've seen much 'fairness.’” He drew a breath. “Until you, that is."

Something flashed across her face, but he couldn't quite read it. Sadness, maybe. She walked to an intricately carved cabinet and retrieved two glasses, blowing off the accumulated dust. "Drink?" she asked, with a quick tilt of her head towards the bottle of Antivan brandy on the table. 

"My Lady Inquisitor..." he began, eyeing the glassware. Adding brandy to what already felt like an awkward mess wasn't going to improve his rousing speeches, let alone make him suddenly rediscover his wits. "I'd not wish to impose on your time. I'm sure you have more important matters to attend to..."

"Oh, bollocks." She waved him off. "It's not every day that I get to send a bunch of Avvar, armed to the teeth and itching for a fight right into Tevinter, is it? Now  _ that's _ worth celebrating." She poured, and handed him his glass before perching on the edge of her desk, her own drink cradled in her hands. "And it's not every day that I don't have to chase you down if I want to spend some time in your company. We could drink to that, if you'd like."

He found his cheeks growing hot, for once grateful for the camouflage the beard afforded. So much for his attempts at tactfulness. He meant to explain his reasoning, but there was something about her expression—a wicked sort of glint to her humor—and the words slipped away. A wiser man would have bid her good evening right there, and excused himself, but he’d never been particularly wise. He took a sip, and considered her from across the room. "Are you saying you enjoy being chased, Inquisitor?"

She bit back a smile, and schooled her face into an approximation of seriousness. "We do need you in good shape, Warden Blackwall.”

He knocked back the drink and covered the distance between them in three steps.

~~~

He stole away before dawn and snuck back in before the Keep woke. 

He walked to the desk as quietly as he could, listening to her soft breaths. In his absence, she had sprawled across the bed, in diagonal, limbs akimbo—and he chuckled to himself before tearing his gaze away. 

He felt only mild remorse at plucking Josephine’s bouquet from the vase and chucking it over the balcony. It was wilting anyway. He replaced the Orlesian flowers with his own—no fancy ribbons or artificial perfume adorning them, only early spring blooms that had yet to unfurl. 

Perhaps, this too would become a quiet, private joke between them. 

He wasn’t the praying sort, but he found himself muttering a short prayer to whomever might be listening—to grant them a bit more time.


End file.
